Chapter 11

Once they finished lunch, Landon followed Grace to the community center.

People tried to come close to meet and greet, but as she promised, Grace kept them away saying they were in a hurry.

Landon needed something to keep his mind busy, a diversion. Having no goal was like looking into an abyss. He needed to start living again. He owed his fellow soldiers more than just surviving.

But it was so damned hard.

A salt-and-pepper haired, wiry man rose from a desk in a corner and greeted them as they entered the place.

“Landon, meet Jonas Hickok,” Grace said introducing a man in his late sixties. “He manages the place. Jonas, this is Landon Petersen and his dog, Scout. He is living in Marcus’s cabin.”

At the sound of his name, Scout barked and wagged his tail.

Jonas straightened and held out his hand and Landon took it. “Really pleased to meet you, Sir,” he said. It was a firm shake, and Landon warmed to his friendly grin.

“Thank you,” Landon said.

“Jonas, I wondered if you could show Landon the museum,” Grace said making air quotes. She turned to Landon. “I have to show a house. I’m leaving you in good hands. Jonas can drive you and Scout back to the cabin if I’m late.”

“Okay. Don’t worry, I think we can find our way back.”

Grace could tell Landon was not happy to be left alone with a person he had just met.

“Call me if you need anything.” And then she was gone.

“Is she always like this?”Landon asked.

Jonas Hickok grinned. “Pretty much. Grace McAllister is like the wind, always in movement.”

“She hired me to write a short history of Middletown.”

Jonas nodded. “She has been looking for someone for a while. Are you a writer?”Jonas said with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Nope. A soldier,” Landon admitted.

“A fellow soldier,” Jonas looked at Landon with new respect. “I’ll show you around.”

Jonas walked to the left and stood at an open door while Landon looked inside. “This is our library and computer center.”

Landon peered inside. Large windows were framed by cheerful drapes. Books filled shelves that lined one wall of the room. Several worn but comfortable-looking chairs were scattered in front of them.

“Nice,” he said.

Then Jonas led the way across the hall to a door and opened it. “And the museum,” he prompted. “We’re just beginning to put it together. We’ve been spending the past several months asking for contributions. Not money, but letters, photos, old newspapers, vintage clothing. Things people usually keep in their attics or their barns. Right now it’s just scattered pieces of our history. I’ve been going through it, but I’m no curator. In fact, I’m just a volunteer who hangs around here.”

Landon nodded.

“Retirement was driving me and my wife crazy. One thing led to another, and before I knew it I was hooked like a fish,” Jonas explained with a laugh.

The big room was crammed with artifacts from rifles to old mining equipment. Lots of wooden furniture. Daguerreotypes and dusty photo albums. Newspaper-size bound volumes sat in a pile on a table. Other tables held scrapbooks. Old fashioned clothes hung in a wardrobe.